


Never In My Wildest Dreams

by GhostWriter37



Category: Sterek - Fandom, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostWriter37/pseuds/GhostWriter37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale was the star pitcher of the baseball team The Bronxton Bats. After suffering an injury to his wrist, he left the league and moved to a small town called Beacon Hills, with his dog Tiber by his side. When he meets Stiles Stilinski, aspiring musician and annoying kid who never shuts up, the quiet life Derek was seeking might not be what he gets. *Sterek AU<br/>-on HIATUS with possibility of rewrite-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Hale, Jersey number 00, pitcher for the Bronxton Bats Baseball team.

Right handed. 193 pounds. 6'1'.

Considered the most powerful arm in the baseball field, his throws were lightning fast and hard.

Nickname: Zeus

Pitches: ...

And that's all Derek Hale was. A bunch of statistics on paper. A number on the field. A king in a game of chess. A face on a sporting magazine. The fame and stats followed him everywhere, whether he wanted them to or not. Whether he liked it, or not.

A lot of people think that fame goes to your head, makes you conceited, arrogant. For some people, it's true. For Derek, it is not. If anything, fame is what grounded him. Kept his feet planted firmly on the ground. It was his reminder; his reality. Nothing was surreal about it for him.

He didn't even want the fame in the first place, but he felt that, when his parents died, he was obligated to continue playing baseball. To make them proud. He hated baseball, but that proud, excited gleam in his mom's eyes when he'd won the first tournament with his first team when he was 12, and the strong, warm grip of his father's clasped hand on his shoulder made it a little more bearable.

Only a little.

When Derek injured his wrist in the last game of the season, the chance was waiting, and he seized it.

After a sparkling recovery, his doctor said he could go back to the big league and play baseball again (after he got Derek to sign some things "for my son") he packed his bags, sold his too-big, almost empty house in Los Angeles, and moved to a small town called Beacon Hills. It was a fresh start; a chance to live the life he always wanted, away from the flurries of reporters and cameras and fans. No one even knew where he was, except his wonderful (read: hard ass) assistant Cora. She was great, she really was, but sometimes...

It was now just Derek and his dog, a golden retriever named Tiber.

He settled into the new house easily, as well as the new routine. Derek liked the house. It was quaint, a main floor where the kitchen and living room were, and then an upstairs where two bedrooms and two bathrooms resided. It wasn't too big, like his old house, but it wasn't cramped and small, either. The routine was nice, too. Derek kept himself busy. He went on a run in the morning with Tiber, grabbed breakfast from a little coffee shop a block away, read that book he's been meaning to read, pick up more furniture for the house, repaint the walls... He had lots of time on his hands, and he vowed to full it, too.

It would definitely be filled, to say the least.

The first few days living in the new town were... peaceful. Quiet. Derek was a nobody in Beacon Hills, just the same as anyone else, and he liked it that way. The neighbour on the left, Mrs. Doubay, was a nice old lady who filled Derek in on the latest town gossip, brought homemade casserole and welcomed him to Beacon Hills. He did not know who his neighbour on the right was, nor did he particularly care.

But he was about to find out.

Cue Stiles Stilinski, the aspiring musician who had grown up in Beacon Hills and was itching to escape. All his life the four walls that surrounded the small town had gotten smaller and smaller, to the point where Stiles was struggling to breathe. He wanted out. He wanted New York and flashing lights and his songs played on the radio and everyone to know who he was. He was going to break the walls, and build new ones. Hell, maybe not even build new ones, just leave a large, empty space so he could have lots of breathing room.

He would never suffocate again.


	2. Two

A loud guitar solo echoed through the (almost) empty streets (and Derek's walls). Derek had hoped (one hour ago) that it would die down and he could finally get some sleep, but it looked like that wasn't happening.

Tumbling out of bed and throwing a shirt on, he miraculously made it down the stairs without breaking his neck.

Tiber was laying by the door, and gave a soft whimper when Derek walked by and opened the door. The night air was chilly, nipping at the bare parts of his skin, trying to find a place where it could sink in and chill him to the bone. He ignored the cold as best he could, and padded on to the source of the noise, - the mysterious neighbour to his right. He hesitated as he got to the door, and then seemed to get his resolve back as he pounded on it and then waited.

The guitar stopped suddenly, and there was a small 'crash' and some loud, colourful swear words before the door opened with a flourish. "Can I he-"

"Turn your music down. Some people want to sleep. Namely me." Derek tried to keep the bite out of his voice. (But failed. Miserably.)

The boy standing at the door (he wasn't more than 19) looked rather surprised, his honey brown eyes blinking rapidly. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair. "Sorry," He said sheepishly. "I just got a new amp system the other day. Still figuring out how to work it and what not. Didn't realise how loud it was - obviously I can't seem to figure that out until someone comes a-knocking on my door.

"Hey- you're my new neighbour!" He teemed with sudden realization. "The one on the right. I'm Stiles - I never got your name. Or seen you. I honestly don't even know when you've moved in. Please don't tell me it's been like, a month. That would make me a really bad neighbour and-"

How could this kid talk so much? Especially at - at least one in the morning, according to the clock that Derek could just glimpse hanging on the wall behind Stiles. "Look - I'm just going to go to sleep now. That's all I want. Turn your amp down, or whatever. Stop playing, even. Maybe you should just go to sleep, like a normal person. I don't care." With that, Derek turned and walked back to his house. Halfway there, the boy - Stiles - shouted "I don't even know your name!"

Derek did not answer.

He went to bed.

Derek slept through his 8am alarm until 10:30am and woke to a knock at the door.

Tiber barked - once, twice. Derek stumbled out of bed and down the stairs, (he would seriously break his neck one day) the whole thing feeling oddly familiar to last night. When he opened the door, it was definitely a repeat, just a little different this time around.

Stiles stood at his doorstep, holding a little brown bag and a disgustingly cheerful smile on his face.

"No." Derek said firmly, closing the door in Stiles' face. He was not dealing with this kid now - or, preferably, if it could be made possible, ever.

He could hear Stiles sputtering. "But - you - rude much! I brought you breakfasty deliciousness with intent to apologize and you slam the door in my face. Maybe you should start with the apologies! The least you could do is take the f-"

Derek opened the door, took the brown bag from Stiles' hands, and promptly shut the door again, a little softer this time. "I took the food. You're happy. Now go away."

"Not even gonna give me a name? If you're not, I am giving you fair notice now, I will, with no hesitation, call you some ridiculous name for the rest of our time as neighbours."

"Not even if I rip your throat out with my teeth?"

"Whoah, okay, I'm neighbours with a violent serial killer. Nobody told me that. Could've been helpful if I had been told. Or even given a cool handbook. 'How to be neighbours with a serial killer' yeah, that has a nice ring to it. 'Step One: Do not approach if possible. Step Two: If need to approach, do not do it when the suspected serial killer is grumpy. Step Three: Approach cautiously, with a soothing voice and raised hands. Do NOT trap serial killer in a corner, or things will get messy.'"

"Derek." Derek growled grumpily from behind the door. "It's Derek. Now leave."

Stiles merely grinned, delighted. "You see, Derek? Things are a lot easier when you do it the easy way. Keep that in mind, Mr. Grumpy Pants." As Stiles walked away, he swore he saw a dark figure peek out the window from behind shut blinds. He could've sworn the glimpses he caught of Derek's face were very familiar, but he just couldn't place where he'd saw him before. He brushed it off impatiently, heading back to his place. It was nothing.

Derek waited until Stiles was gone to peek into the bag. In the bottom was nestled a plate, stacked with deformed chocolate chip pancakes. Crossed over the top of the stack was a knife and fork. In the corner of the bag stood a travelling mug full of the bitter scent of coffee - he figured it was black. Obviously the pancakes were home made. (Unlike Mrs. Dubay's casserole. She said it was home made, and Derek went along with it for the sake of not arguing with the old woman.)

He took the bag to the kitchen, put the pancakes and coffee in the microwave for an extra thirty seconds. He put one cube of sugar and two shots of cream into the coffee; the way he liked it- and dug into the pancakes. They were surprisingly good, despite their deformed shapes. (Derek swore one looked exactly like the outline of old Abe Lincoln's head. He would bet money on it.)

When he was finished he washed the dishes and put them back neatly into the paper bag.

Derek went upstairs to change, and when he went on his run with Tiber, if he set the paper bag of dishes neatly and quietly by the corner of Stiles' door where they could be seen and not stepped on, he didn't make a show about it.

If Stiles came home from his best friend Scott's (after maybe bitching a little about his new, hot, asshole of a neighbour; "Scott, I'm not kidding you, he opened the door, went 'No' and slammed it in my face! What a jerk!") and saw the paper bag on his doorstep, with clean dishes inside and a little white sheet of paper with chicken scratch writing (really, who could even read it?) slanted across the page

("Thanks")

and if he maybe did a little happy dance there in front of the door that vaguely resembled the "you do the hokey pokey and you shake it all about" part of the Hokey Pokey, with a triumphant grin on his face (someone liked his pancakes, or at least ate them, wait until Scott hears about this, that'll show him) then he would not admit it.

If Derek opened his door to let Tiber out for a bit, and happened to see Stiles dancing ridiculously, his long limbs flying everywhere, and if a small smile possibly picked up the corners of his lips, well, god forbid that ever happen.

(It didn't. Not in Derek's book.)


	3. Three

Derek pushed his shopping cart through the aisles of the small grocery store, looking for dog food but not being able to find it.

"Hey- Derek! Fancy meeting you here, dude. Looking for something?" Stiles awkwardly made his way towards Derek, his arms full of various food items in bags.

"Not you," Derek muttered, his grip tightening on the handle of the cart.

"C'mon. You really gotta work on this whole 'being nice' thing. It's not cool to be all grumpy and mean all the time." Stiles shifted some, scrunching up his nose. "Nobody will like you if you keep that up."

"Maybe that's what I want." Was Derek's reply, spotting the dog food (finally) and moving quickly towards it.

Stiles stood for a minute, his mouth in an 'o' shape of surprise. Then, suddenly, he ran as best he could towards Derek, excitement lighting up his face. "I knew it - I knew you looked familiar! You're Derek Hale. You played for the Bronxton Bats. Dude, you were amazing. Why did you leave the team? Oh man, this is so cool. I'm neighbours with you!"

That's when Derek had it. "Look, kid," He whirled on Stiles. "I'm not 'Derek Hale who played on the Bronxton Bats.' I'm just 'Derek Hale. A nobody.' Like you, and everyone else in this pathetic town. This is not what I came here for. All I want is to be left alone. Can't you get that through your thick little head? You wanna know why I quit the team? It was because of annoying little brats like you. And just a piece of advice - you wanna be in the music industry?"

Stiles nodded. He didn't know why.

"Well forget it. Drop that dream now, kid, 'cause you're not getting far. Now leave me the fuck alone. I don't want to see your face at my door again." Derek turned and met Stiles' gaze, making sure the boy got what Derek was saying. They stood there for a good five minutes, not one of them breaking the stare. 

Stiles looked hurt, but covered it as much as he could. Derek felt bad, but said nothing more. The musician was the first to break the stare, his eyes averting quickly down to the floor. Derek nodded, seemingly satisfied.

As Derek walked away, forgetting everything else he needed to get, he dropped a twenty at one of the tills, plucked the dog food from the cart, and went out the doors to his car. He set the bag in the back and when he stood up to close the door, he heard a cold, hard voice from behind him.

"I don't know what happened to you, Derek. I don't know why you're so - so bitter, or angry. But I hope you know that you were my hero, once. You were - are - a lot of kids heroes. Now I'm starting to think that maybe you shouldn't be. You don't deserve to be. And you know what? Fuck you. I'm going to get into the music business. I've been busting my ass for years, and I'm going to make it. Haven't you ever been told to never give up on your dreams? Stiles pressed his lips together. When all he got from the ex-baseball player was silence, he huffed and left.

As Stiles turned his back to leave, Derek seemed to unfreeze from his half-hunched position. "Baseball has never been my dream. That's why I gave up on it." It was the first time Derek had ever uttered the words to anyone but himself. The words were bitter, and left a sour taste in his mouth, but it felt - almost... nice to say them. Relieving.

"Then what is it?" Stiles asked quietly, his back still facing Derek.

Derek shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Not anymore. That dream is long dead." (Like his parents. Like his sister. Like his house. Like his love.)

Derek got into the driver's seat, and drove away.

Stiles stood in the parking lot for a long time, until he finally noticed the ache in his arms from holding the bags. Slowly, he walked over to his jeep and put the bags in, feeling guilty. He had no right to say what he did. Then again, Derek most likely wasn't guilty at all, so why should Stiles be?

Because, that's how Stiles was. He figured that, maybe, Derek was allowed to say things like that. He was allowed because of the way he was, the things that he experienced. Stiles didn't have a clue as to what had happened to Derek, but he knew they were probably pretty bad to make someone so cold, angry, bitter.

Someone like Derek.


	4. Four

Derek did not see Stiles for six days.

Of course, he did spend most of those six days hiding in his house, only going out when absolutely necessary, in fear of running into Stiles somewhere.

All he could think about was the icy way Stiles had spoken to him, calling him a hero, his hero, and then saying how he didn't deserve to be one. The words replayed over and over in his head, and he was unable to get them out.

It was true.

Derek did not deserve to be a hero. He couldn't even see how a child would perceive him as a hero in the first place. He wasn't special - he didn't have powers or a cape. He wasn't even nice. He was just cold and harsh and reserved. An empty shell of a person who didn't know what he was doing, or where he was going. Lost in the past, his ghosts followed him everywhere. The smell of smoke and ashes never completely gone.

Heroes are brave and selfless. They saved people.

Derek was a coward. He was selfish. If anything, he wrecked people. He absolutely destroyed them.

He tried not to think about that too much.

Instead, he busied himself with the repainting he needed to do.

The cans of paint and everything he needed were in the trunk of his Camaro, (they've been sitting there for a week), and Derek figured he needed to get them out and finish up with them.

With a good scratch behind the ears, he let Tiber out into the back yard, and then walked around the house and to the Camaro. Derek popped the trunk, and took out all the cans and brushes he needed, setting them on the pavement beside him.

He would not have heard Stiles approach if the boy hadn't have toed the bits of gravel in Derek's driveway as he stood quietly. Derek tilted his head, peeking over his shoulder to look. Stiles had his head tilted down, hands jammed deep in his jeans pockets.

He looked young and small when he did that.

If Derek felt bad before, he felt kind of terrible now.

Wordlessly, he picked up a paint can and held it out to Stiles. Derek hoped the boy would take his peace offering of sorts. Stiles lifted his head, his eyes on the paint can. Slowly, he lifted his hand and grabbed the handle, looking at Derek with a raised eyebrow, as if asking, is this what you want?

Derek simply gave a firm nod, grabbing the other can and the brushes, and making his way into the living room.

It took them one hour to paint two walls.

It was ridiculous.

Stiles was teeming with energy and unsaid words, basically vibrating. He would hum and tap his food and steer off task. He tread slowly, almost carefully, as if he were watching his step. He would open his mouth and draw a breath, as it to speak, and then close it, seemingly changing his mind.

"Who's dream is it, then?" Stiles finally asked, glancing over at Derek. About time.

"What?"

"In the parking lot - you said 'Baseball has never been my dream.' Then whose?"

Derek was quiet for a long time. "My dad's. It was his. I hated baseball. Still do."

"Then what's your dream?"

Derek didn't even have to think about it. "I've always wanted to play lacrosse." Derek didn't know why he was telling Stiles. He was... a stranger. Someone he didn't know.

"Lacrosse, huh?" Stiles nodded to himself. "So, why Beacon Hills?"

"I figured I needed a change of scenery. I needed... home."

"You lived here?" Stiles asked, turning to look at Derek almost accusingly.

"For awhile. We moved around a lot, but we always owned the house here. After awhile I just... stopped coming back." Derek confessed.

Stiles noticed the way Derek's 'we' suddenly changed to a sullen "I". He did not point it out, though it nagged at him. There was a story behind it, he knew. It sat at the back of his mind, though he couldn't recall it exactly. He made a note to himself to look into it later. 

Having your dad as the sheriff has its perks.

The conversation dropped off for awhile as Derek moved to help finish Stiles' wall.

When they finished off, Derek asked; "Same time tomorrow?" Stiles shook his head.

"Earlier. I have to be at the recording studio later tomorrow."

Derek nodded, and as Stiles turned to leave, Derek opened his mouth. "Would you -" He hesitated, casting his eyes to the ground. "Stay for dinner." He said a little more firmly, raising his eyes to look at the back of Stiles' head.

Somehow, the boy had managed to get paint everywhere. Everywhere, it seemed, but the wall. There was a smear on his cheek, a small dot on his nose, several strokes on his arms, shirt, pants.

Stiles nodded slowly, his lips parting "What happened to not wanting to ever see me at your door again? I honestly thought you were going to beat the shit out of me when you saw me, not hand me a paint can."

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I was being..." Derek struggled to find the right words.

"One hell of a grumpy bastard?" Stiles offered.

Derek fixed him with a look. "Fair enough. But I handed you that paint can to paint my walls, not so you could paint yourself." Derek teased. It was the first time he'd teased someone since... since a long time. Derek couldn't even remember.

Immediately, Stiles looked down. "What!? Dude, seriously. This is my favourite shirt!"

"You've got it on your face, too." Derek grinned. He left the living room laughing softly, as Stiles attempted to see himself through the T.V. screen.

"Oh my god!"

"Bathroom is upstairs. First room on the right," Derek said through chuckles.

If Stiles got a warm feeling at hearing Derek's laugh, he would not tell.

When Stiles washed off the paint as best he could, he headed to the kitchen. Something was sizzling on the stove as he slid onto a bar stool at the island that was in the middle of the kitchen.

"Hope you like stir-fry," Derek said, leaning against the counter beside the stove, facing Stiles.

"Sounds good to me," Stiles replied, tapping his fingers on the edge of the counter and wiggling in his seat.

Derek hid a smile as he said: "You've still got paint on your face."

"Dammit," Stiles muttered, feeling a warm blush spread over his cheeks.

"Here," Derek said. He turned some, grabbing a piece of paper towel and stepping up to wet it under the sink tap. He leaned over the island, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin just above his waistline.

Not that Stiles was looking, or anything.

He smelt nice, too. Piney, with a hint of spice. It was nice.

Gently, with intense eyes, Derek scrubbed a spot on the side of Stiles' nose. His hand was soft, barely there, on the side of Stiles' face as he moved to a spot at the side of his jaw. After a few minutes of scrubbing, Derek pulled away some, the triumphant look on his face slowly melting off, an unreadable expression crossing Derek's face instead. They stayed where they were, just looking at each other. As time stretched on, they almost seemed to be moving closer.

"Your food is going to burn," Stiles said, breath catching in his throat, not daring to move an inch. Derek glanced over at the pan, looking almost surprised, as if he had forgotten all about it.

Derek instructed Stiles as to where the plates and cutlery were, and he got them out. When they ate, Stiles may or may not have complained about the food being burnt; "This piece of broccoli is burnt, Hale. Look at it. It's black!" And Derek may have replied rather sassily "It's not burnt, it's just overly crisped." Stiles laughed, hard, the corners of his eyes crinkling, his laugh bubbling out and filling the house (and Derek) with warmth.

As Stiles lingered on Derek's steps longer than he should have after saying goodbye, glancing up to look at Derek, giving a sheepish smile and another soft 'goodbye,' Derek swore to himself right then and there that he would not wreck Stiles, not like he wrecked everyone else he'd ever known, (including himself).


	5. Five

Three rooms, three dinners, four days, and (a lot) of spilled paint later, Stiles and Derek were almost finished. The only room left to do was Derek's bedroom, and then they would be done.

But Derek didn't want to be done. He liked the company. He liked the dinners, the way he always ended up drawn into conversation. He liked the jokes and teasing, laughs and smiles.

And maybe he liked Stiles a little, too. (Or a lot. A whole lot works.)

Stiles also did not want to stop. He did swear to himself, though, that he would still go over to Derek's anyway, even if he had to make up some ridiculous reasons just to do so. (He wouldn't have to, though. Stiles knew by now that Derek would let him in.) And yeah, Stiles would have to keep his weird-Derek-feelings under control until he figures them out (He doesn't have to figure them out. He likes Derek, okay? He really, really likes him. A lot.)

Stiles walked down the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in pockets, whistling a tune as he turned onto Derek's lawn. Tiber came running up, giving a happy bark. Stiles liked Derek's dog, too. He'd always wanted one himself, but he never got one.

"Hey buddy, where's Derek?" Stiles asked, scratching behind the dog's ears. There was a sudden, but faint 'crash' from inside the house that made Stiles freeze. Tiber whined, his ears pricked up as he stared at the door. The door, Stiles realized, that was open a few inches. Tiber ran to the backyard, tail between his legs.

Stiles glanced around and then back at the house, another startling noise drawing his attention. Slowly, Stiles started to walk towards the door, pushing it open with two fingers and peeking around. The house was a mess. A lamp was on its side, broken glass and pictures littered the floor, along with books and papers.

"Derek?" Stiles called hesitantly. It looked like someone had robbed the place.

A clatter sounded from upstairs. Stiles looked up, as if he could see through the floor to find out what was going on. Unsure, but making his decision, he took the stairs one by one. A chill shuddered up his spine. He was worried. Worried for Derek. What was going on?

Stiles jumped as there was a loud bang. He nearly fell backwards down the stairs, but caught himself that the last moment. "What the hell?" Stiles breathed, heart pounding. He made his way up the stairs a little faster, without any near death experiences, and went to the source of the noise - Derek's room.

The door was wide open, as if someone had thrown it open in haste. Stiles hesitated, stepping just inside the doorway. It was in a state of disarray, much like the living room, as if hurricane had gone through. There were ripped pictures along with broken glass. Derek's nightstand was laying on its side. The lamp was broken in half and clothes scattered all about.

Derek stood in front of a full-length mirror, shoulders rising and falling fast, breath heavy.

"Derek?" Stiles' voice was small, his words seeming to fall on deaf ears as Derek did not acknowledge him. "Derek, what happened? Please talk to me. I - oh shit- No, Derek - Don't - Derek!"

The mirror shattered, and Derek fell to his knees.

Stiles rushed over, and conscious of the glass, knelt beside Derek. "Are you crazy?" Stiles asked, his voice rising slightly as he stared at Derek's hand - there was glass stuck in the flesh, and blood dripped down from the open cuts. Derek's eyes were wild, as if he were a cornered animal looking for a way out.

Hesitantly, Stiles placed a hand on Derek's shoulder. "Derek," Stiles nearly whispered. Slowly, Derek turned and tilted his head to look at Stiles. The look on his face was enough to make Stiles want to cry. Agony, guilt, hate, complete and utter self loathing. Stiles had never seen anything as heart wrenching, never seen anything like it. He never knew how broken Derek was.

"It was my fault," Derek murmured, his eyes fixed on a spot far behind Stiles. He closed his eyes, a shaky breath escaping his parted lips.

"Whatever it was, it wasn't your fault Derek," Stiles said firmly, squeezing Derek's shoulder.

Derek made a soft, pained sound that said it all; it was. Slowly, he picked up a piece of jagged glass, turning it around with his fingers.

"Put it down," Stiles said, his voice wavering. He was terrified. For Derek, of course. He was clueless and scared and he didn't want Derek to hurt himself again.

Derek moved to his feet, Stiles' hand falling back to his side.

Derek's hand closed around the glass, squeezing. There was a crack as the glass snapped. Fresh blood dripped from Derek's already bloodied hand.

Stiles leaped up, jumping at Derek. He pushed him back against the wall, grabbing Derek at the wrist.

"Stop." Stiles' voice was desperate. He had no idea what to do. "You-" And then he was being tuned, back slamming against the wall. Derek's face was fierce, eyes smouldering as he looked at Stiles. Stiles' breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly. Derek's fierce look melted to one of horror, as he let go of Stiles' arm and backed away slowly, dropping the glass and backing until his back hit the opposite wall. He slid down, his head resting on his knees.

There was a moment of silence, where both men were like statues. Derek's shoulders started to shake. Stiles exhaled loudly before moving over to Derek again, sitting down beside him. He layed an arm around Derek's shoulders, pulling him against his side. Derek's face tucked into Stiles neck, an arm going around his back. Their legs tangled together as Derek leaned over into Stiles. It was uncomfortable - Stiles' arm was squished between Derek and the wall - his elbow and shoulder blade pressing hard into it. His foot was tucked awkwardly under Derek's leg and yeah, he was going to be sore if he stayed like this for a long time (which he figured he would be), but really, he didn't mind because weirdly, it was the most comfortable Stiles had ever been. Derek was warm and solid against Stiles' side.

A quiet, broken sound filled the room and a wrecked sob followed. Stiles squeezed his arm tighter, turning his head and pressing his face into Derek's hair. "S'ok," Stiles breathed. "You're okay."

A warm, damp spot stuck to Stiles' side. He realized it was Derek's blood, where Derek was clutching Stiles' shirt. Stiles wiggled away from Derek, standing and pulling him up too. "Come on, Der," Stiles murmured, pushing him to the bathroom, his hand pressed against the small of Derek's back.

Most of the blood had dried, but some cuts were still bleeding. First, Stiles carefully pulled the remaining pieces of glass from the cuts. He ran Derek's hand under warm water, using the facecloth hanging beside the sink to wash the dried blood off. Stiles left Derek to find the first aid kit. It was under the sink, where he kept his. Stiles set it by the sink, opening it up and finding what he needed.

When he finished patching up Derek's hand, he put the first aid kit away, threw the glass in the garbage, put the face cloth in the sink now filled with bleach, and pulled Derek back into his room. Stiles went through Derek's closet, grabbing two shirts and tossing one at Derek. When finished changing, Stiles took the shirts and put them in the bleach water. He came back to see Derek sitting on his bed, his head in his hands (again).

"I'll help you clean up. We can do it tomorrow," Stiles said quietly, plopping on the bed beside Derek. The older man nodded slowly, and then stopped, shaking his head.

"This isn't your mess. I'll clean it up myself," Derek said slowly, voice scratchy, turning his head to look out the window. (Anywhere but Stiles. He wouldn't look at Stiles. He couldn't.)

With a half smile on his face, Stiles bent down, grabbed a piece of glass, and tossed it, watching it break. "It's a bit of my mess, now," Stiles said smugly. Derek shook his head again, huffing out a forced laugh. He looked out the window again.

"Hey," Stiles said softly. He leaned in a little closer, bumping Derek's shoulder with his own. "Come stay with me tonight."

"I - I couldn't do that. I've been enough of a burden, Stiles."

"You're not a burden. And now I'm insisting. If you refuse someone who insists, you'll be cursed forever." Stiles stood up and lingered by the bedroom door.

"I'm already cursed." Derek murmured softly, but standing. If Stiles heard (which he did) he did not say anything. Derek walked past Stiles and Stiles followed, herding Derek down the stairs and out the door.


	6. Six

"Sooo..." Stiles started, leaning back on the couch beside Derek. "Are you going to tell me wha-" Stiles was interrupted with the piercing ring of the telephone. He reached over to the stand beside the couch, grabbing the phone and pressing 'speaker' before tossing it on the coffee table in front of the couch. It teetered dangerously on the edge, but didn't fall off.

"Yo, this is Stiles," He said, tilting his head back with a soft sigh and closing his eyes. He could feel Derek's judgemental stare and it made a smile pick up the edge of Stiles' lips.

"Hey, dude."

"Scotty!" Stiles opened his eyes. He hadn't heard from his best friend in a few days.

"Still having trouble with your, and I quote, 'hot, asshole of a new neighbour' you were bitching abo-" Stiles made a strangled noise and dived for the phone. He hit the coffee table and the jolt caused the phone to fall. With a lot of flailing and swearing, Stiles rolled over the coffee table, grabbing the phone and turning speaker off. 

"I said no such thing, you lying liar who lies. Now I have to go because I have company. It's my nice new neighbour."

"Oh - shit, man -" Scott's laugh rang through Stiles' ears. "Sorry."

"You totally aren't. Stop lying. Goodbye. I'm hanging up now." Stiles pressed end and the phone clattered to the floor beside him.

"You called me-" Derek began.

Stiles made another sound, and then "Not talking about this."

He could feel Derek's surprised, but smug smirk, so he leaned up enough that his whole face was visible over the top of the table and stuck his tongue out.

"What are you, six?" Derek asked. Stiles stuck his tongue out again in reply. Suddenly, a pillow came flying at Stiles' face. It was too late to duck, and it hit Stiles right in the face.

"Hey!" Stiles exclaimed. He grabbed the pillow and whipped it right back, but Derek caught it easily. Damn baseball player powers.

"What are you, six?" Stiles mocked as Derek threw it back and Stiles ducked this time. Stiles reached back and grabbed the pillow, cradling it to his chest as he rested his chin on the coffee table. Derek and Stiles sat, just looking at each other. Stiles admired Derek's strong jawline and sharp cheekbones. He noticed the smallest smile lines around the edges of Derek's lips, which he honestly found surprising. Derek liked Stiles' moles, scatted everywhere in disarray. His eyes, too. The golden honey colour, warm and inviting, surrounded by long, dark lashes.

"I think-" Stiles started, not staring at Derek's lips.

"No thinking," Derek muttered, sliding off the couch and onto his knees, putting his hands on the coffee table and leaning over it. "No thinking," He repeated again, soft and breathy as he pressed his lips against Stiles'. Stiles pressed back, sitting up a little straighter, the pillow dropping to the ground as he moved his hands to Derek's upper arms, his shoulders, the back of his neck. Derek pulled away some, brushing his lips down Stiles' haw, nosing into Stiles' neck. He pulled away more this time, halfway over the coffee table instead of nearly the whole way, looking at Stiles curiously. Stiles made a soft sound in the back of his throat and collapsed to the ground again, rather dramatically. Slowly, with a small smile, Derek layed on the ground, too.

They laid for awhile in silence, on opposite sides of the table.

"My family died in a house fire when I was 16. My sister and I were the only survivors. We were at school when it happened. My uncle made it, too, but he was... he was a vegetable, basically. We took him off life support the first week. And then my sister died two years later, got hit by a transport that hit a patch of ice and lost control. The fire was seven years ago today. That's why..." Derek finally said, trailing off, voice small. Stiles moved his hand from under his head and grabbed Derek's where it was resting under the middle of the coffee table.

"My mom died of cancer when I was young. Watching her slowly waste away... I was there when she died. My dad wasn't. I remember hating him for that. Hating him because it felt like I was there, and he wasn't, because he didn't care. Of course he cared. He loved my mom so much... Things weren't the same after that. My dad never had a drop of alcohol in his life, and after she died, he had at least half, if not a whole flask of brandy a night. I was mad and scared because I had just lost my mom, and it felt like... like I was losing my dad, too. And he was the only thing I had left, you know?" A knot formed in Stiles' throat. He never talked about his mom, not to Scott, or his counsellor, or anyone. Except, apparently, Derek.

There was another long stretch of silence.

"Well," Stiles breathed. "That was a sobering conversation." He cleared his throat. "Let's get un-sober. What do you say?"


	7. Seven

Stiles woke up with a killer hangover and half a memory. He also woke up with no Derek. He had no idea how he got into his bed (he did not remember getting there, or even going up the stairs at any point, for that matter) but he figured maybe Derek had something to do with it, even though Derek had drank as much, or more, than Stiles and should be able to function about as well as a tasered man. Then again, if there was anything Stiles hated about himself, it was that he was a lightweight. It didn't take much for him to get tipsy, and it didn't take much more to make him hammered.

Derek woke with a pounding headache and a deep hatred for the sun that dared to shine directly in his eyes. He got up and dressed, stumbling down the stairs (dammit, he did a lot of stumbling down the stairs. like, a ridiculous amount. one day...).

Taking a few Tylenol with a bottle of Gatorade, he put Tiber on a leash and went out for his daily morning run (that wasn't very daily any more). Derek need some fresh air, some time to clear his head. The events from last night were foggy, but there.

He remembered Stiles taking out his guitar with a proud look in his eyes as he fondly brushed his fingers over the strings. Even as he sang silly songs with made-in-the-moment lyrics, he was good, really good, and Derek couldn't imagine how great Stiles would sound sober. The memory of the kiss burned in his mind, searing hot. A sudden urge to kiss Stiles again came out of nowhere. To press him against the wall, hands on his hips, Stiles mouth hot and inviting.

Derek kept jogging, his breath puffing out in white clouds in the crisp morning air. Fall was fast approaching. It wouldn't be long until the season came, with turning leaves and Halloween decorations finding their way into stores.

And then another memory slowly came along. Two people laying on a roof - him and Stiles - watching the stars. Stiles was talking about his pet lizard he once had, stumbling on his words until he finally blurted "I don't want fall to come." He had turned his head to look at Derek, sounding and looking rather sober. "I hate fall." He said sullenly. The pain behind his eyes was real, and Derek couldn't imagine why. "It gets colder, slowly. So un-noticeable that winter just suddenly shows up one day, unannounced. The sweaters and hot chocolate and decorations and costumes, it's great, really, it is. But watching everything slowly die... The leaves turn these beautiful colours, golden yellows, flaming reds and vibrant oranges, and then they just - fall. Fall right off the tree. Turn an ugly brown and waste away. The flowers droop and wither, lose their petals, and then they die too. I hate it. Why can't they stay beautiful? Why can't they live?" Stiles' voice caught at the end. Derek realized suddenly that Stiles hated fall because it resembled his mother and her cancer. How she slowly got sicker and sicker each day until she just - died. Fell off her tree and wasted away. Derek felt a pang in his chest. Unlike Stiles, fall was Derek's favourite season. Yes, everything died, but it showed that everything has an end. It signified a new beginning, a light in the tunnel, because when it was over and winter came and passed, spring comes. Everything blooms and lives again. It was a new start.

Derek liked new starts, and chances to start over.

Maybe one day Stiles would understand this.

When Derek got home, his breath caught in his chest and everything seemed to freeze as he went cold all over. Written on his door in red marker was; "You can't run," with a smiley face that had two X's for eyes.

"Can't run from what?" Said a voice from behind him. Derek jumped, nearly falling as he stumbled over himself to turn around. 'Whoah, there, buddy. Take it easy. Just me," Stiles said, his hands up and in front of him.

"N-nothing, I just, um, probably some stupid prank," Derek stammered, shaking his head. Stiles frowned, as he regarded Derek carefully. His face was white as a sheet and Stiles had never heard Derek stutter or stumble on his words - even when drunk.

Asshole.

"Are you okay? Like, really okay?" Stiles asked, reaching out, his fingers brushing the fabric of Derek's half-sleeve shirt at the elbow. "Cause you know, if you're not, it's totally alright. You can tell me stuff, I just want you to know. I won't - I wouldn't - unless, -"

"I'm fine, Stiles," Derek said a little more firm and under control, though he was still very pale.

"Whatever you say," Stiles replied, though he knew Derek was lying. About what, he didn't know.

Yet.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, my use of apostrophes is horrifying. Really, every time I need an apostrophe for Stiles' name (see?!) it always without fail gets tacked on the end, even if it shouldn't be. Sorry! Also, my lack of updating. Yeah, it's been awhile, I know. But I've been working really hard on another fic, that's been taking most of my time. I'm aiming it to be a non-chaptered one, and at LEAST 5 or 6k. I'm hoping I can get it around 10k or higher. Hence, the lack of update on this fic. Again, I'm sorry! So, please, be warned that this one may not be updated very regularly. Thank you!<3

"Due to recent events, I say we get drunk," Stiles said easily, two boxes of assorted beers in arms, standing on Derek's step like he owned it.

"Stiles, it's two in the afternoon."

"Oh, so you can only get drunk at a certain time of the day now?" Stiles hmmphed, eyebrows raised. "I don't care if it's eight in the morning. I wanna get drunk."

"Again. Twice in one week," Derek added, but opened the door nonetheless.

"And maybe more to come," Stiles joked, stepping inside.

"What are those recent events, anyways?"

Stiles set the beer on the coffee table, plopping on the couch with a heaving sigh. "Life in general."

"What happened?" Derek asked, moving to sit by Stiles, feeling concern at the boy's sullen expression.

"Scott blew me off. Again. We were supposed to spend this weekend together, hanging out. We haven't seen each other in awhile, you know? No doubt he cancelled just to do some last minute thing with Allison. It's great that he has her and all, and I get that he loves her, but it just seems that ever since Allison came in, there's been nothing going through Scott's head but her. There's never anymore time for us to do things. And I could deal with that, I could. But, the recording studio, they called me. Right after Scott did, actually. I didn't get a deal. They said they, and I quote, 'Don't think your music is right for our company. It's different. Not that different isn't good, of course, Mr. Stilinski. As well, we really don't believe that you would fit in with the team. Sorry, Stiles, but we're not giving you the deal.' You know what that is in the music industry? A giant 'you and your music suck' and a nice slap in the face." Stiles' shoulders slumped in defeat as he ran a hand through his hair. "I'm officially friendless and talentless."

Derek made a soft disagreeing noise at that. "Stiles-"

"Hand me a beer, would you?"

Derek leaned over Stiles, opening the box. "Stiles, I think you're pretty goddamn talented. Really, ridiculously talented, actually. Better than anyone I've ever heard. Fuck people who disagree. Find a new studio. You'll get that deal eventually, Stiles. And Scott'll come around. If he doesn't, then he's lost a great friend." Derek held a can upright in his hand, in front of Stiles' face.

"You are my new best friend and favourite," Stiles breathed, leaning forward and catching Derek's lips with his own.

The beer was out of Derek's hands and Stiles was chugging it with ease in the blink of an eye.

Quietly, Derek grabbed a beer for himself and popped it open. It was Heinken- the good stuff, Derek noted.

After four more Heinkens and several Coors light, Stiles was spread starfish on the coffee table, drunk.

With two Heinkens and one Coors, Derek was half laying on the couch, pleasantly buzzed.

"'V gotta pee," Stiles declared, rolling to the side and landing on the floor in an unceremonious heap. Slowly, he crawled away and up the stairs.

Derek rubbed a hand over his eyes, shaking his head and sighing as he reached down and grabbed a waiting beer. How had his life come to this? Getting drunk at two in the afternoon because an annoying 18 year old boy with big, brown eyes and a crooked smile, an annoying 18 year old boy who wormed his way under Derek's skin and burrowed deep, asked him to.

The beer slid down his throat and left a warm feeling in his chest and stomach. Stiles was a lot like beer, Derek figured, and okay, maybe he was a little more than pleasantly buzzed. But he kinda was right - Stiles was tempting and tasted good and left your head spinning and made a warm feeling seep throughout your body.

Then there was an image of Stiles' lips in Derek's mind. Derek wanted to- he wanted to kiss Stiles again. A real kiss this time. Maybe another one, a day when they weren't drunk, too. But right now they were and nothing really mattered except the taste of Stiles' lips and the feel of his skin under Derek's hands.

He got off the couch, went up the stairs. Stiles was just stepping out of the washroom, eyes bright as he tugged the door closed behind him. "Der!" He exclaimed. "Der you are." And then he erupted in a fit of laughter. "I made- I made a joke- a funny joke-" Stiles giggled, "D'ya, D'ya get it? Der you-"

Derek's hands found Stiles' hips and he pushed him against the door,

"Whoah-" Stiles said, a bit of awe in his tone as he stared up at Derek through thick lashes. "Tough guy, o-kay..." Stiles trailed off, eyes settling on Derek's lips. "'F you k'ssd me righ' now, 'td be greeeeat," Stiles mumbled, dragging out the 'great', tongue darting out to wet his lips. Derek's thumbs found their way under the hem of Stiles' shirt to his hips, brushing over the prominent bone. He slid the rest of his has hands underneath, sliding his palms up Stiles' sides. Derek leaned closer, his nose brushing Stiles' jawline as he breathed Stiles in. There was a soft 'thud as Stiles' head dropped back against the door, a whine in his throat. "Derrrrrrrek," Stiles whimpered. There was a rumble by Stiles' ear, a sly smile against his neck. Stiles turned his head towards Derek slowly, and Derek moved up, pressing his lips behind Stiles' ear before tilting his head and slotting his lips against the waiting boy's. Stiles let out a happy sigh, tugging Derek closer, moving his arms around Derek's shoulders. He ran a hand through Derek's hair, a laugh escaping his lips. When they broke for air, Derek slid his mouth to Stiles' neck. Hands fisted into the front of Derek's shirt, and then he was being manhandled until his back was against the door instead of Stiles'. Stiles looked up at Derek, blinking innocently at Derek's confused look. He hummed and draped himself over Derek's front, leaning up and kissing Derek again.

"Wait, waitwaitwaitwaitwait," Stiles muttered, pulling away. "Th't message thingy, on your, on your door. Th; prank thing. There w's a... a sign thing. Symbol. At th' bottom. What... what was it? I know it- it looks like s'mthing 've seen before. You - you know what it is."

"Stiles, is this really-"

"No! Y've seen it," Stiles pushed. His face had an open curiosity, but an underlying determination. Derek sighed, tipping his head back against the door.

"Yes, Stiles, I know what it is."

"And you- you know who did it. 'T wasn't a prank. They... they did it to your house on purpos..." Stiles said, head tilted to the side.

"You're right."

A smile made its way across Stiles' face. "'M always right."

Derek scoffed, shaking his head. "Bit of an overstatement, if you ask me."

The dopey smile stayed as Stiles murmured 'okay' and brushed his lips over Derek's again.

"It was a sign of revenge," Derek said softly, with Stiles' lips pressed to his throat.

"What are you, 'n ex mafia member 'r somethin'?" Stiles smiled, bringing his face up inches from Derek's. Derek laughed, pressing his nose to the back of Stiles' ear as he hummed.

"My dad was part Italian. You'll never know."

Stiles snorted, laughing recklessly, stepping back to look at Derek but stumbling on his own feet and tripping backwards. He landed on his back on the ground and managed to take Derek along with him. Stiles laughed again, looking up at Derek, a shit eating grin on his face. Derek's lips tilted up at the edges in a smile, a fond look on his face. He leaned down and kissed Stiles, moving his hand closer to Stiles' head so he could better steady himself, the other staying positioned between Stiles' ribs and upper arm. Derek pushed his knee in between Stiles' legs, Stiles letting out a shaky breath in response and tilting his head up to get a better angle for the kiss.

Gaining some confidence, Stiles pushed his hands up the back of Derek's shirt. His skin was shockingly warm under Stiles' cool hands. Derek let out a soft exhale, mouthing at Stiles' jaw. A sudden hiccup jolted Stiles' body, then another. Derek chuckled against Stiles' neck as Stiles laughed, another hiccup escaping.

"Der, 'm, 'm drunk on you," Stiles giggled, hiccupping yet again.

"Okay, bedtime," Derek smiled, moving off Stiles and tossing the younger over his shoulder.

"Jesusfuck," Stiles said, staring wide eyed at the ground. "What're you doin?"

"You're going to sleep, Stiles."

"But it's- it's only like, four 'r somethin'!"


End file.
